


A million snowflakes falling; A thousand steps to guide me home

by ThisGoldenAfternoon



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Cold Weather, Flashbacks, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Snow, Sting Is An Idiot, Sting can't dress properly and almost freezes to death, cue Rogue to the rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 00:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisGoldenAfternoon/pseuds/ThisGoldenAfternoon
Summary: It's almost Christmas and Sting's held up in Magnolia. With no trains running and snow steadily falling, he tries to make his way back to Rogue...Alas; luck won't indulge him as the weather takes a turn for the worse and the night closes in.As he ardously forces his way through the dark, icy forest he can't help but recall all those Holiday seasons he'd seen come and go; the pain they caused him and the joy they brought.But while he's lost in thought he also gets lost in the woods...And the snow keeps on falling.





	A million snowflakes falling; A thousand steps to guide me home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [splendidlyimperfect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/splendidlyimperfect/gifts).



> Merry Christmas @splendidlyimperfect!
> 
> You have no idea how happy I am that I got to write for you!  
> Lots of love, TGA
> 
>  
> 
> Btw: I might still be changing small bits and pieces, as the last part hasn't been betaed (or proof-read either). But I sincerely hope you can still enjoy the story.

_20.000 steps_

The world is bathed in dazzling light.

A light that paints everything in surreal pastels and adorns the silent landscape with the ephemeral shimmer of a million crystals basking in its iridescence.

But the vast blue skies above are a beautiful lie; the stark white sunlight filtering through the barren branches of the trees deceiving; for the winds are sharp as knives and are already sinking their teeth into his frostnipped cheeks.

He is but a small, lonesome figure that wanders the snowy forest; an intruder that taints the untouched mantle of pristine snow with an ugly pattern left by crude boots; and the quiet woods condemn his insolence with wordless defiance.

The snow had been light and powdery for the first few hundred meters, but now as it’s getting deeper it starts opposing his legs and clings to his feet in thick, heavy chunks, that refuse to come off, no matter how much he shakes them.

And yet… his mind is set.

So he struggles on…

 

_18.000 steps_

A couple of hours ago he’d still been cooped up in a sticky, overheated conference room with twenty-something other Guild Masters; all of them discussing the most recent increase in taxes and how to avoid them.

Sting, however, had been staring out of the window with a far away, pensive look, while his thoughts had long since escaped the confining room and run ahead to the welcoming warmth of scarlet eyes and scarred, gentle hands.

 

It’s the 23rd of December and he’s stuck in Magnolia, for the heavy snowfall of the past three days had efficiently brought all means of transportation to a halt. All trains had been cancelled until further notice.

But he couldn’t wait that long, for fuck’s sake. He’d promised that he’d be home for Christmas, and gods be damned, he’s gonna keep his word.

 

Back then in the safety of the meeting room the weather seemed nice and calm enough, so Sting had excused himself haphazardly, and, muttering an inaudible “Fuck it, Imma go home…” booked it out of there without the slightest bit of guilt or doubt troubling his mind.

He didn’t owe those old farts shit.

But he owed it to his beloved to be home for Christmas.

After all, it was only a fifteen kilometres walk. Roughly 20.000 steps…

How far could that be?

How long could that take?

 

_16.000 steps_

The sun is sinking in a whirl of pale yellow and pink; not the vivid explosion of orange, gold and red they’d watched on countless, hazy summer-nights; but a quiet fading as the last dying lights slowly give way to the impending darkness.

And while the night steadily creeps over the eastern part of the sky, heavy clouds are gathering in the west and from the way those few remaining sunrays tinge them in a deep, foreboding ultramarine, he can tell that they’re heavy with snow.

By now his face has gone completely numb; lips cracking with dryness; and the scarf he’s pulled over his nose can’t keep the icy winds out at all, so every breath hurts a little bit more.

His toes are nothing but pins and needles, any feeling gone, and no matter how hard he keeps rubbing his hands together, the life just won’t return to his fingers.

For a second he wonders if the clothes he’s wearing were enough to get him through the night… But then he pushes the thought away adamantly.

These were the warmest clothes he had with him, so they had to make do…

They just had to; no matter what.

For he promised that he’d be home for Christmas.

So home is where he goes.

 

_14.000 steps_

Christmas… For as long as he can remember, this certain time of the year has always left him behind in shatters.

 

_It’s still been early in November, when Weisslogia had requested the unthinkable._

_And of course Sting had refused passionately; the concept of choosing death freely yet too alien for his young, innocent mind to grasp._

_But as the weeks went by and the first shy traces of morning-rime changed into bone-rattling frosts, his father’s absolute orderings turned into an urgent reasoning first, and desperate pleading later on, while his limbs grew heavier by the day and his once dazzling light slowly dulled to grey._

_By the time Christmas Eve was around the corner he was but a mere shadow of his once blindingly bright, imposing self, begging for his sufferings to end, until Sting finally caved and took his father’s life._

_How long exactly he sat next to the mighty body that night he couldn’t tell, and it was only when his blood—covered hands froze stiff and the tears on his cheeks turned to ice, that he left Weisslogia’s side._

_By then the snow had covered the dragon in pristine linen of immaculate white._

_And Sting ventured into the night without looking back – blood-stained, tainted, small and forlorn._

_He found no shelter that year, spent Christmas Eve huddled into the corner of a desolate barn; a stolen blanket around his shoulders and a few wizened apples his meal; and he dreamt of warmth and another heartbeat close to him, only to wake to a dull dawn full of loneliness and grief…_

_Broken, hungry, freezing, forlorn._

This was the first Christmas he remembered.

 

_12.000 steps_

The snowfall has started again. Big, fluffy flakes at first and Sting has watched them tumble from the skies in silent awe, but then the wind has picked up and all at once the innocent white stars turned into razors that cut his skin.

He can barely see ten feet ahead and with the world slowly being buried beneath a cover of stillness, the road is almost indiscernible any more.

The snow reaches up to his knees by now and each step is another small struggle against the weight dragging at his feet and the leaden heaviness spreading throughout his limbs.

Sting feels exhaustion wearing him down and a sharp, relentless pain grinding in his joints, while the wind steals his breath and the chill seeps a bit further into his flesh.

Not for the first time he stumbles and falls to his knees, but now he cries out in anger and frustration, curses the harsh winter storm, the merciless snow and the unforgiving cold, as he yells into the solitude of the evening, until his throat is hoarse and sore and his breathing is coming in ragged, agonizing sobs.

He staggers on nearly blinded by the wind; the harsh shivers having him choke and gag while tears and snot freeze on his face.

Fifteen kilometres. Roughly twenty-thousand steps. How long could that be…?

Goddamn long…. Sting realizes.

Beyond the endless sea of barren trees, the last light fades and blackness swallows the world.

_By the time the first anniversary of Weisslogia’s death rolled around Sting hadn’t been alone any more._

_When spring had finally won its long, arduous struggle against the fangs of winter the Dragon Slayer had found a companion – a curious one for sure, but a companion none the less._

_It was a chestnut furred, small, boisterous cat with a big mouth and an even bigger heart and Sting had come to love him dearly before long._

_They’d travelled a lot, all across the country, wherever the wind blew them; until when the leaves started to fall from the trees in silent cascades of dying gold, they crossed_ his _path._

_And when the first snow fell, it’s been no longer just Lector and Sting…_

_What he remembered from this Christmas was a suffocated, timid sniffling in the dead of night, small trembling shoulders and his own tears mingling with those of an almost-stranger._

_That night Rogue broke his silence for the first time, dared to open up to the boy he’d been travelling with for more than three weeks now and allowed Sting to see past the carefully constructed walls of indifference._

_They shared their guilt and their grief that night, gave in to the ever-present craving for closeness and comfort as they curled around each other and either choked out his sins in the other’s arms._

It was a Christmas Eve drenched in tears, but without even realizing it, they’d given something invaluably precious to one another that day: their friendship and their trust.

 

_10.000 steps_

Sting’s boot gets caught by a concealed root and in the next moment he’s falling once again.

His quick Dragon Slayer reflexes save him from crashing face first into the crusted snow, but as he tries to catch himself, his hands break right through a thin layer of ice that had formed over a vivid, gurgling rivulet.

The sharp edges cut his wrists, but the small sting is drowned in the sheer unbearable bite of freezing cold water soaking through his gloves and creeping up his sleeves.

He pulls back immediately, but the damage is done.

And only a couple of seconds later he can feel the relentless winds piercing his already burning fingers with merciless fangs.

No rubbing, no clapping would help now, Sting realizes, and when his hands prove too stiff and numb to open the leather-buckles holding the gloves in place, the only thing he’s left with is stuffing his balled up fists into his pockets and hope for the best…

But the small brook he’d just stumbled into tells him that he’d lost the road at some point… and that he doesn’t have the slightest idea where exactly he is, too.

One glance at the thick, low-hanging clouds eradicates any chance of using the stars to find his path and the foot prints he left behind are already being swallowed up by a fresh layer of snow, so backtracking until he could find the road again is out of the question either.

Instinct tells him to follow the direction into which he’s headed and since he has no other guidance to call his own he just walks on while trying hard to ignore the increasing nagging at the back of his head.

He’d promised to be home for Christmas and neither snow nor cold can make him go back on his word.

He owes it to Rogue.

 

_8.000 steps_

_The next Christmas he recalls was rock bottom._

_He sat in a cold, barren room with barely any furniture save for two beds and some cupboards and his still small fingers were tightly entwined with clam, lifeless ones; his thumb anxiously checking that the weak, erratic heart-beat was still fluttering through Rogue’s delicate, bloodless wrists._

_That night he prayed for the first time in his life._

_They’d joined a Guild a couple of months ago and Sting had come to regret it soon enough._

_They’d been desperate -for sure- winter came early that year, their money was about to run out and suddenly Frosch was feverish and sick._

_So they were more than grateful when a huge, stern looking man offered them a place in his Guild._

_He’d watched them fight for coin in the streets and he seemed to like what he’d seen._

_But the tables turned, and Sting and Rogue learned quickly that the Master’s benevolence was easily lost and hardly ever recovered._

_One messed up mission was enough and he’d beaten Rogue into a pulp and left him on the Guild’s threshold without a second glance._

_By the time Sting had finally found him the Shadow Dragon Slayer had barely been breathing anymore and his whole body was blood-covered, cold and still._

_Sting tended to his wounds and stayed by his side –pleading, begging, bargaining with any god listening – while Rogue fought against fever, concussion and unbearable pain._

_And while Sting pressed the umpteenth soft kiss to the scarred hand he wouldn’t let go of, it occurred to him that Rogue had become the most important, beloved thing in his short life and he’d do anything to save him._

_It took almost two days for whatever merciful deity listening to grant his wish…_

_Two agonizing days that left Sting behind shaking and utterly exhausted; so when Rogue’s heavy eyes slowly opened he burst into tears right on the spot, his sobs ugly and pitiful, but the relief too strong to make him care._

_And even though they had no money to buy each other any presents, he’d never received a better gift than feeling his best friend’s heart beating steadily right beneath his head and his warm body heavy and whole in his arms._

 

_6.000 steps_

A sharp crack is the only warning Sting gets, and before he can lunge out of harm’s way something heavy has already hit his back hard.

It’s solely due to his draconic instincts that he manages to avoid what would have been a fatal blow to his head, but the brunt of the impact as the thick branch crashes right between his shoulder blades forces the air out of his lungs and sends him down into the snow violently.

For a few minutes he remains on the ground – motionless and prone – while everything seems to back away from his dwindling consciousness and the white stillness tries to lure him in, but then he claws his way out of the daze and struggles to his feet.

His vision starts to blur almost immediately and his legs feel foreign and faint, but he squeezes one eye shut and, leaning heavily onto a sturdy wooden stick, he staggers on.

Above him the clouds are shifting and fleeting, until they give way to a stunning, midnight-blue sky – like the cupola of a cathedral where million stars painted sceneries of heroes and saints from times gone by.

He dully realizes that he could use those stars to guide him home, but whenever he raises his gaze, the whole firmament starts spinning and the earth pulls him in.

So he keeps his head down and follows the wordless voice tugging at his heart-strings that is ushering him on.

You promised it. Don’t break your word!

Beneath his skin the last few embers of warmth freeze into agony.

_4.000 steps_

_The next few holiday seasons were nothing but a blur. Time flew by, measured solely in completed missions, exhausting training sessions and punishments that shook their very cores._

_But one certain Christmas Eve a couple of years later should become one of Sting’s dearest memories._

_They were on a mission in the northern borderlands of Magnolia; where high, snow-covered mountains enclosed secluded, silent valleys with small, hidden villages huddled at the feet of mighty peaks._

_They obliterated the bunch of trolls that had been terrorizing one of those hamlets in a fight that lasted more than eight hours and left both Dragon Slayers at the verge of a fatal exhaustion._

_Both had passed out the moment they’d collapsed onto their bed at the inn and nothing could wake them for more than twelve hours._

_The first thing that finally penetrated Sting’s mind had been the sound of solemn, melodic bells ringing throughout the village and once he’d pried his eyes open he found their room bathed in warm, flickering light._

_Next to him Rogue started stirring and the soft shine bathed his features in ever shifting shades of gold before it set his eyes aglow with wonder._

_Fifteen minutes later they found themselves out in the silent, empty streets with their breaths forming small steam-clouds that ascended into the night and awe written all over their faces._

_The whole village was suddenly engulfed by the shine of hundreds of lacrima crystals floating freely between the cosy wooden houses and every window was illuminated by flickering candles._

_In the distance they could make out the lights of other villages or desolate granges higher up in the mountains and everything was so, so quiet._

_They wandered through the steep, narrow alleys without meeting a single soul, neither of them daring to disturb the silent night until the still ringing bells guided them to a small market square glistening with snow._

_A huge fir tree had been set up right in the middle, again adorned with countless lacrima and glittering stars, and both boys had never seen a Christmas tree more beautiful than this one in the remote village in the Norther Mountains._

_As they stood there feeling tiny and very, very insignificant beneath the vast winter sky, a choir rose from the small church right behind them; an old Christmas Carol that had almost been forgotten in the cities of Fiore… and suddenly they understood why the streets had been deserted._

_“’t’s Midnight Mass…” Rogue whispered softly with a quiet, melancholic longing in his voice, but he made no move to head for the chapel._

_Neither of them was particularly religious, but right there and then they felt the breath of something divine ghosting through the cold, crisp air._

_All at once a shower of shooting stars crossed the sky above them; soundless sprites that seemed to rain down onto the snow covered mountains like wandering souls finally coming home._

_They watched them traverse the heavens in silent wonder, the ever-shifting shine painting restless patterns onto their faces, and maybe it has taken only seconds; maybe it’s been hours - but in this very moment as they stood frozen in time and space Sting suddenly felt cold, hesitant fingers slowly reaching for his hand._

_For a heartbeat he didn’t dare to move - then he shyly entwined their fingers and glanced at Rogue cautiously._

_The Shadow Dragon Slayer’s gaze was still transfixed on the quietly twinkling sky, but a soft blush seemed to dust his cheeks and there had been specks of light dancing over his brow._

_In this second it was as if Sting had actually seen him for the very first time – prominent features, starlit eyes and all - so before he could even consider his actions, he had already leaned in to press a quick, gentle kiss to Rogue’s temple._

_Above them the stars kept on falling._

_Back at the inn both still felt a warm, fuzzy feeling fizzling quietly in their chests and while the lacrima outside continued to flood their room with a hazy shine, they just lay side by side; wordlessly watching each other breathe._

_After quite a few minutes of losing himself in endless wine red eyes Sting reached out carefully and allowed his fingers to trail over Rogue’s cheek with a feather light, slow touch._

_And even though the caress wasn’t reciprocated, Rogue’s eyes became even more tender and hooded before they fluttered shut and a soft sigh graced Sting’s palm._

_Beneath his hand the fair skin felt warm and soft and inviting; the pale, slightly parted lips too tempting to avoid, so Sting let his thumb trace their outlines with gentle motions._

_A small peck had been tickling his hand then, and in the next moment Rogue had already scooted closer and pressed their foreheads together._

_Their noses brushed against one another, their breaths mingled and all it took was a tiny tilting of head that could have come from either of them and their lips had found each other._

_Sting felt Rogue’s mouth curling into a lopsided smile, sensed his heart thundering against his own pounding chest and when they pulled each other in it was like finally coming home after years of straying around in the dark._

_That night they gave each other a place to belong to; something that was theirs and theirs alone; and they carried this place with them where ever they went from that day on._

_Although nothing really changed between them – they were still Sting-and-Rogue and Rogue-and-Sting - both of them were glad, that they’d found a wordless way of communicating with their lips; one that allowed them to say all those things that were shunned in Jiemma’s harsh, cruel world._

_And time went by…_

_2.000 steps_

The air seems to freeze solid in Sting’s lungs.

Every breath is a bit more painful than the last, and every step makes him stagger a bit more.

His world has narrowed down to a pin-point, the edges spinning ceaselessly, and in his ears buzzes white static as thick and impenetrable as the snow holding him back.

His body feels foreign and heavy, what with warmth and strength steadily seeping out of his flesh, and when he stumbles once again, he can’t even raise his arms to break his fall.

The harsh ice-crystals cut his cheeks and bite into his face with merciless fangs but Sting doesn’t feel the pain any longer

Every last nerve in his body seems to have given up and only numbness is left in his muscles…

Numbness and a burning sensation that gets worse by the minute as it traverses through each and every cell of his being like a furnace and before long he can’t tell if it’s cold or heat that scorches in his veins.

His mind is reeling, all thoughts becoming hazy around the edges and when he turns his head with sluggish motions it takes a while for his vision to follow.

He dully realizes that he might not survive this, for he lacks the power to get back up, but he’d promised to be home for Christmas…

So he starts crawling…

 

_1.000 steps_

He is but a small, lonesome figure that lies forgotten amidst the snowy forest; an intruder that taints the untouched mantle of pristine snow with an ugly pattern left by useless limbs; and the quiet woods watch idly as he’s being swallowed by the steadily falling snow.

Sting feels that he’s reached his limits; his joints have locked up, his chest feels too tight and an eerie darkness is slowly closing in on him.

He tries grovelling on, searches for a hold to pull himself forward, but his arm just sinks down limply the moment he reaches out and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t move it any longer; just like the rest of his body.

Fire seems to rage even in the last fibres of his limbs, an unbearably burning sensation leaving him clawing at his clothes with weak, stiff fingers; but to no avail…

So he abandons his fruitless endeavours, curls into a tight little ball and tries to gather enough strength to carry on.

He starts drifting towards unconsciousness, his lids heavy and his eyes unfocussed; the sharp sting of remorse dulled by the haze slowly submerging his mind, but right before everything goes dark, a small light seems to be dancing merrily through the blackness not far away.

A tiny firefly in the midst of winter, but somehow the sight subdues him, leaves him all peaceful and calm, and he watches the soft shimmer ghost through the trees, as his breathing slows down.

‘Lights shall guide me home…” Sting thinks incoherently while his blood retreats a bit further from his limbs and his heart-beat quietens.

_1.000 steps_

_Everything started with a flickering light in a dark, cold winter night and it was strangely comforting to know that it would end that way, too…_

_Once upon a time; many, many years ago Sting had been lost in a vast forest just as well with little more than the clothes on his back, no food and a small shivering cat pressed up against his chest._

_He’d lost his path over an hour ago and when dusk fell he was desperately searching for any kind of shelter - no matter how shabby and sparse - to spend the night._

_His anxiousness had long since turned into despair when he suddenly smelled it._

_Another dragon somewhere close by._

_It wasn’t Weisslogia - that much he could tell - but the scent struck him as oddly familiar and just as welcoming, so he let his nose guide him further into the woods._

_A few hundred steps later the flickering of a small bonfire lured him towards a snug clearing beneath a sheltering rock spur – but instead of a dragon he found a boy not older than himself that watched him with keen, crimson eyes._

_For how long the two of them kept staring at one another over the restless flames neither of them would ever be able to tell, but after an eternity of wordlessly scrutinizing Sting’s face the stranger’s gaze shifted to the miserably quivering bundle in the blond’s arms and suddenly his wary, stern features softened._

_“Won’t you come over, already? It’s warmer by the fire, you know?”_

_It was the first time Sting remembered ever hearing Rogue’s voice, but something hidden deep down in his quiet, smooth tone resonated with his subconsciousness in the most intriguing way._

_The dark haired boy didn’t talk much that night, but he shared his food with Lector and Sting and let them stay by his fire._

_And while he clad himself in pensive silence the small Exceed that had been snoozing peacefully beneath his jacket had happily chattered away, obviously delighted to make their acquaintance._

_Around midnight Rogue had quietly bid them goodnight and curled up beneath his thick mantle while Sting and Lector sat huddled against one another; shivering harshly as they shared the flimsy, far too thin blanket they’d stolen a while ago._

_Sting actually fell asleep some time later only to wake after a couple of hours with his whole body shaking fiercely and his teeth clattering so badly, he could feel it in the marrow of his bones._

_He tried rubbing his hands together, blew warm breaths against the stiff, greyish fingers only to be rewarded with a white-hot, unforgiving pain that shot throughout the frozen joints as soon as the life started to return._

_He bit down hard onto his bottom lip; could already taste iron and salt in a stubborn attempt to hide his pain, when a string of suffocated, pitiful whimpers escaped his trembling lips._

_Suddenly the small lump next to him stirred and grumbled a sleepy: “Tch… idiot…”_

_Sting almost snapped at him but when he looked up irritatedly he found no spite or anger on Rogue’s face._

_“You could have just said: ‘I’m cold’ instead of freezing to death in silence…”_

_There was a tiny bit of mockery in his eyes and a chiding tune in his voice, but to Sting’s utter surprise the other boy raised his blanket in a silent invitation._

_They glanced at each other for a second – a wordless dialogue in the dead of night – until Rogue smiled timidly and Sting carefully slid beneath the patiently offered covers._

_All at once he became painfully aware of how awfully close the raven haired Dragon Slayer was, as the warmth of another body seeped through his skin and further down into his very core._

_His touch-starved, kindness-depraved heart ached and throbbed when he felt Rogue’s breaths ghosting over his skin; and before long he had started quaking and choking as he tried to muffle the painful sobs rising in his throat._

_Then, however, a gentle pair of hands reached out carefully to rub his arms and shoulders in an attempt to will the life back into his limbs._

_Rogue shifted his position ever so subtly, allowing Sting to bury his tear-stained face in his chest, before muttering quietly: “It’s okay… the night always hurts the most right before dawn…”_

_A few minutes later Sting had fallen asleep to small fingers combing through his hair and the scent of cedar and sandal tingling his nose._

_1.000 steps_

The shadows keep on crawling closer. With every lazy breath, every dwindling heart-beat the darkness descents a bit further onto Sting.

The snow won’t melt on his skin any longer; crystals grow from his lashes and the ceaseless shower of big, noiseless flakes gently covers him like the most pristine shroud.

The warm light is still there, still bouncing happily through the night and his dying eyes won’t stray from it even for a second.

The howling wind now carries voices – gentle, smooth and endlessly dear – so Sting lets them lull him to sleep with their ceaseless rise and fall.

A leaden, bone-deep tiredness bears down on him, leaves him weightless, detached and too dazed to allow any coherent thought to form in his head except for ‘I’m sorry…’.

What exactly he’s apologizing for, however, Sting can’t really tell.

 

_1.000 steps_

The blackness is thickening, while the light gets brighter.

The unsteady shine that flits over the snowy ground reaches for him longingly and clouded azure eyes cling to its radiance with last, waning strength.

The shimmer darts over his body before carelessly passing by and for a moment something akin to fear reignites in Sting’s fogged mind… but in the next second the light snaps back; this time right into his face and then everything happens in a flash.

Suddenly the playful sprite comes rushing towards him with dizzying velocity, the stark brightness burning his unfocussed eyes until he’s completely engulfed in an all-encompassing radiance.

Something calls out to him from beyond the sea of light with a low, gentle voice and in the next moment he’s floating.

The same something utters his name again, quieter this time as the static building in his ears drowns every sound and without a warning blackness swallows him whole.

 

 _1.000 ste_ ps

I’m sorry, Rogue…

 

 

_1.000 steps_

Sting drifts through the darkness; weightless and free of pain; while time slowly loses all meaning.

It’s peaceful here – wherever that might be – and the silence is like healing balm to his ringing ears.

He feels as if he’s sinking to the bottom of the sea, nothing but endless blackness embracing him tightly and he doesn’t know which way is up; which way is out.

And since his head starts swimming whenever he tries to think about it, he gives in to the current and goes back to sleep.

 

The next time he comes to, a weak light source has ignited somewhere far off to his right, its shine still distant and dull but as soon as Sting starts moving closer a calm comforting warmth seems to spread throughout his whole being.

The urge to sleep returns almost immediately; forces his leaden eyes shut and pulls his mind into the void until a faint, muted whisper disturbs his cocoon of lethargic tranquillity.

“…ng…”

“ _Sting!_ ”

_“St…g.”_

Sting glances around, but only blackness greets him and he still doesn’t know which way is up; which way is out…

So he listens…

Often the almost impenetrable nothingness blocks out any sound; sometimes, however, the bodiless voice fights its way through darkness and haze …

Sometimes it coaxes; sometimes it pleads, reasons or begs; and the despair slowly seeping into its tune makes Sting so, so sad; but whenever he starts following the ceaseless prying a sharp, unbearable pain cuts through his flesh and the merciless cold sinks its fangs once again into his mistreated body.

So he shies away from the icy blackness separating them time and again, while without even realizing it he starts drifting towards the quiet, patiently glowing light.

Down there everything breathes sacred silence and promises sweet, unperturbed rest.

And since he still can’t tell which way is up, which way is out, he complies easily.

 

The further he ventures into the blinding white the quieter the ceaselessly calling, luring voice becomes until it has died down to a mere whisper from somewhere far, far away…

“ _Please…_ _I’m begging you!”_

The patiently waiting, eternal shine is already casting a soft glow onto Sting’s features when he stalls dead in his tracks.

Never before had the voice sounded so heart-broken, so defeated, hopeless and done-for so as soon as it reaches him, Sting can’t help but turn back.

Was he really making the right decision here?

Sure, fading into the light seemed easy, painless and gentle…

And maybe the faceless voice only wanted to lure him into an abyss of torture and agony… but what if?

What if….?

_“Sting… don’t go there… please…”_

Sting had tried answering the relentless callings time and again to no avail; but at that very moment as the light already starts reaching for him with firm hands he actually manages to choke out one small, negligible syllable.

“Hurts….”

The oppressive darkness tries to devour the weak little noise; the fog seems to swallow it whole and for a short moment of utter defeat and capitulation Sting wants to let go.

Then a soft gush of barely noticeable wind carries a faint, dying echo to his ears…

“The night always hurts most right before dawn…”

 

And suddenly he knows which way is up, which way leads out…

 

_1.000 steps_

Sting hands himself over to the excruciating pain without a second thought; presses on into the uncharted, barren darkness with his mind once again set and a solid purpose spurning him on.

Each new step brings another almost unbearable pang of agony, while the cold slowly seeps back into his blood.

But with every inch also returns a small part of his body until the detached sensation of floating stops and he can actually feel his aching, throbbing limbs again.

A severe pain immediately stabs his hands, his head, his back and feet and he can’t help but groan miserably.

A stark light burns his eyes as soon as he tries opening one even the tiniest bit, so he squeezes them shut with another low whimper.

But then a warm touch ghosts through his bangs; careful fingers press up against his brow as if checking his temperature, a second hand taps his cheek and a low, husky voice breathes:

“Sting? Hey, Sting, are you awake?”

He pries his listless lids open again, another pitiful groan too hard to supress, and a small string of “Owws..” leaves his lips, before his hazy mind slowly resurfaces from the darkness.

“Rogue…?” He whispers into the blurry nothingness around him and his voice sounds alien and weak from neglect.

There’s a long sigh somewhere to his left and in the next second something heavy slumps down onto the mattress limply.

“Thank God…” Another sigh, once again so, so tired and exhausted with relief that it hurts Sting almost physically.

The world slowly swims back into focus, so that he can finally make out his surroundings; quickly realizing that he’s safe and sound and warm, tucked beneath a heap of blankets while opaque winter sunlight filters through the frost-covered windows...

He glances around for a moment longer before he finds Rogue next to him, watching him quietly, with nothing but relief written over his face and he…

He looks like shit.

His hair is a mess, skin almost translucent with pallor and dark, heavy bags make his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes look even puffier-

But it’s still one of the most beautiful things Sting has ever seen in his life.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer reaches out carefully, lets his fingers trail over the blond’s face gently, as he whispers:

“You’re finally awake… you’re… you’re… dammit, I was so worried…”

Sting is still trying hard to dispel the cobwebs currently clouding his brain, but he just can’t align the memories of freezing cold, dead limbs and darkness closing in with the fact that he is warm, and safe and sound tucked in beneath of small mountain of blankets with his lover by his side.

Shaking his head harshly, he mutters: “What… what happened? Did I actually make it home?”

Rogue looks at him strangely for a moment, then he sighs: “No?! No, you didn’t… I found you out in the woods half-dead and dragged your frozen ass back here.”

He huffs exasperatedly but then just watches Sting’s face in silence; his features closed off, but his eyes gentle and soft.

“You… saved me? How’d you know I was out there?” Sting’s at a loss.

Sure, Rogue seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to his loved one’s being in danger, but this?

A tired smile tugs at the Shadow Dragon Slayer’s lips, before he chuckles: “Don’t thank me… It was old Macarov who’d tipped me off… He called the Guild yesterday to let you know that the Council hadn’t been pleased with your unexcused absence… He got worried when I told him that you hadn’t shown up here, yet. And so did I…

I went to the station in order to meet you, only to learn that all the trains had been cancelled… I called your hotel, but they told me, that you’d already checked out…

So I went home and waited for you…”

Something painful flits over Rogue’s pale face and his eyes turn a deeper shade of red, before he continues.

“We waited for you for hours, but when the storm got worse and night fell I knew something had happened. So I went out to search for you…”

The sickening sensation of free-fall makes Sting’s stomach plummet into nothingness at a thousand meters per second as he realizes how much trouble and sorrow he must have caused his lover.

The thought makes him almost sick and roughens his voice into something sharp-edged and scraping as he inquires:

“I… You… you actually found me…”

“Yeah…” Rogue all but whispers. “Yeah, I found you… But it took me so goddamn long… I thought you would be wandering around somewhere close to the road; probably lost and whiny; maybe injured… but I’d never expected to find you in the middle of nowhere, passed out and reenacting the closing scene of “The Shining”…”

Agitation has wormed its way into his speech, but it’s dull; exhausted and eerily emotionless, as if something had drained Rogue of every last little scrap of energy he had left.

Sting only stares at him -wide-eyed and completely run over - before he lowers his gaze and mumbles:

“I knew, I lost the road at some point, but I never figured I’d gotten this far off track…”

“The ironic thing is…” Rogue sighs, “You weren’t all that far away from home… Maybe 1,5 kilometres, but it took me ages to find you…”

“And you carried me back all the way?”

“No… ‘t would have taken too long…” For a moment Rogue closes his weary eyes and the effort it takes to pry the heavy lids open again isn’t lost on Sting; but before he can intervene the Shadow Dragon Slayer has already continued:

“No… When I found you your heart-beat was so slow I couldn’t even detect it and you were barely breathing… Even if I’d managed to carry you all the way back through the snow it would have been too late… So I took you with me through the Shadows….”

The White Dragon Slayer sucks in air sharply, releases it unsteadily, before inhaling forcefully again…

“You… you did what? All the way? Are you nuts? Dragging someone along through the Shadows always drains all of your magic, even on short distances… How come you’re doing okay now?”

Rogue breathes a short, voiceless laughter as he reaches out to brush some stray strands of shimmering gold out of Sting’s eyes:

“Well, taking you with me really took a number on me… I collapsed right at our threshold… But trust Lector and Frosch to have our backs when we need them…”

Sting raises an eyebrow in question but otherwise remains silent what cues Rogue to continue his explanations: “They dragged both of us inside; out of the cold; then Lector grabbed one of the Stamina-Potions we’d received as a reward last year and made me drink it… Next thing I knew, I found myself in the hallway in a puddle of ice-water and you face-down next to me… “

A reminiscence of a bone-deep, dark fear seizes Rogue’s features for a second, then he scoots closer and threads his fingers through shimmering spikes of gold.

Sting, however, jerks away, as if singed, and he inquires incredulously: “But those potions can eradicate exhaustion only for so long. And then it returns tenfold…”

“Yeah, it sure does…” The Shadow Dragon Slayer sighs… “After roughly five hours I almost passed out once again… So I chugged another one… “

Sting’s eyes go even wider and his voice suddenly comes very small and very frightened: “Just… how long have I been out?… No… wait… rather… How many of those things did you down?”

Rogue averts his gaze pointedly and refuses to answer for a moment, but when he feels Sting’s prying gaze boring right into his head, he sighs: “You’ve been unconscious for almost 18 hours… It’s the 24th, almost 2 pm…” He falls silent then, but caves when his lover nudges him repeatedly, to admit: “You’ve been out cold for 18h and in that time I took four of those damn potions, okay?”

He sounds almost angry…

… and so does Sting, when he retorts: “What? Are you insane? Rogue, dammit, you’ll pass out at random whenever this shit wears off and god knows, if you’ll ever wake up… How could you be so reckless?”

“Says the one who ventured into a snowstorm clad like this… Damn, I’ve seen strippers wearing warmer clothing than you did, last night. You’re no one to talk… Also… what choice did I have?

I couldn’t just go to sleep… Chances were that I’d wake to your dead body next to me, you damn idiot!”

Now there are tears rising in gorgeous ruby eyes and the state of complete exhaustion; physical and emotional alike; does nothing to calm Rogue down.

‘Here it comes…’ Sting thinks offhandedly; already expecting to get chewed out for his stupidity, his recklessness and lack of common sense, when he’s suddenly being pulled in gently.

Two strong arms wrap around his shoulders and in the next moment he feels two or three stray tears trickle down his forehead, while Rogue nuzzles into his hair and wordlessly holds him close.

His heart is pounding almost painfully and when he inhales it sounds forced and wet, struggling and afraid.

Then he whispers: “Please don’t scare me like that ever again…”

 

Sting is already opening his mouth to comfort and swear everything his lover would ever ask of him, when Rogue continues:

“Four times… I thought you’d died on me four times, because your pulse was so damn slow…”

“I’m sorry, my love. I never wanted to worry you like that. I just wanted to keep my promise…”

For a second the Shadow Dragon Slayer huffs mirthlessly against the blond crown, then he mumbles:

“No; I should apologize… If I hadn’t pouted like a child when you told me you had to attend this conference you wouldn’t have gone to such extremes… I’m sorry, love…” He looks at Sting’s face for a long time; then caresses his cheek gently.

“Tell me, are you still hurting?”

Ever so slowly Sting begins to move; cautiously, one muscle at a time, and even though his limbs are achy and stiff, he’s surprised that the life had so willingly returned to his mistreated body.

But as soon as he tries flexing his fingers a searing hot, excruciating pain has him yell out in agony.

“Fuck… my… my hands…” he whines. “They hurt like shit and I can’t really move them, they’re all rigid… I…”

“Shhh… Calm down…. Calm down…” For a moment he’d almost lost himself in mindless hysteria, but Rogue’s low, soothing voice cuts through the choking vines of panic easily.

“Your hands hurt because you sustained second to third degree frostbites and they’re all stiff because I bandaged them! Here, look!”

With slow, gentle motions he takes a hold of Sting’s left wrist to retrieve it from beneath the blankets and lifts it carefully for the blond to inspect.

The slender fingers are neatly wrapped in pristine layers of gauze while the scent of disinfectant and healing balm clings to the thick bandages.

“I’m a mummy…” Sting mumbles half in shock, half amused; before another painful stabs runs through his hands.

Rogue hurries to ease the injured limb down but not without pressing a barely noticeably kiss to every single finger; before muttering:

“You shouldn’t move them too much for now. The blisters mustn’t break open, okay?”

Sting can only nod; a sudden sensation of overwhelming gratitude and affection tightening his throat so much that when he finally speaks, his voice is little more than a hoarse, choked whisper.

“Thanks Rogue. You really saved my ass out there…”

“t’s nothing… You know I’d alw….” Whatever was to follow gets drowned by a long, irrepressible yawn and not for the first time Rogue has to blink the sleep away forcibly.

And even though the deep purple rings seem oddly highlighting to his warm ruby eyes, the sight still stabs Sting harshly.

So, although it takes almost everything he’s got, he reaches out for Rogue’s face and brushes his knuckles against his cheek as softly as possible.

“Get some rest, love. God knows, you need it…”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer, however, only shakes his head stubbornly and – forcefully trying to supress another hearty yawn – retorts: “No! I… You… Something might happen to you; you might jus-“

Soft fabric suddenly tickles Rogue’s lips when Sting let’s one of his wrapped up fingers ghost over his still fumbling mouth.

“Hush, love! I’m alive… and alright… and I ain’t gonna die on you, no matter what! So, please!!!

Please sleep! You look like Death on a cracker; you’re could pass out anytime without any one knowing when or if you gonna wake up ever again… Come on now, be reasonable!”

Hesitant, frightened ruby eyes find determined, encouraging azure ones and for a heartbeat everything is frozen in time.

A silent dialogue in the middle of the afternoon…

Then suddenly Rogue chuckles darkly… “I couldn’t even sleep if I wanted to…”

 

Sting looks at him questioningly and without understanding, so the Shadow Dragon Slayer grabs his wrist again – gently, ever so gently, even though Sting can feel his hand trembling- and presses it against his chest.

For a second all that Sting feels is stillness then the nauseating pounding of his lover’s heart seems to run right through him.

 “Gods, Rogue… you’re pulse’s racing…”

“Yeah, I know…” Rogue replies wearily. “And it makes me nauseous and antsy and…”

“Hush…” Suddenly a soft, light-blue aura spreads around Sting’s index finger and before Rogue can even object, the White Dragon Slayer had already reached for his brow with a soft, ever so gentle touch.

“Sleep. Everything’s fine. I’m okay and I’ll be right here when you wake. Just sleep. I promise I won’t leave you.”

Within moments Rogue’s lids are drooping and flutter closed when Sting presses a sweet kiss to his already unfurrowing brow.

An arm is sluggishly slung around his waist and a small pull is all that it takes to have both pressed up flush against one another.

The heart-beat that had been thundering erratically in Sting’s ears slowly evens out and the breaths ghosting over his skin become deep and lazy, while he feels his lover’s body gradually relaxing against his chest.

The pale afternoon-sun washes Rogue out in ephemeral pastels, crowns him with a halo of fading gold and Sting can’t stop watching him until he can’t fight the drowsiness any longer.

 

\- Cedar and bonfires, fir tree and snow, tear drops, sorrow and laughter –

 

When he wakes, Sting can’t really recall his dream, already feels the fragments slipping though his fingers, but as soon as he opens his eyes he realizes that it doesn’t matter at all…

Rogue lies curled up against his chest and his features are all relaxed and unstrung.

Outside the sun is sinking in every possible shade of gold and the last fading rays of light that filter through the ice-flowers covering their window  paint surreal patterns of fleeting beauty all across their room.

Sting watches in awe, almost spellbound, as the few remaining embers dance across Rogue’s face; then he starts following their path with his lips.

A small fluttering of long lashes against warm skin is the first sign that tells the blond his lover is about to wake, so he continues kissing him gently as he pulls him closer.

 

A string of quiet, tiny noises falls from the softly parted lips and Sting breathes them in, as he presses sweet pecks to both corners of Rogue’s mouth and he can’t help but chuckle when his lover starts rubbing his head against his shoulder like a content, lazy cat.

Rogue wakes ever so slowly, a tranquil, almost adorable sight, for he’s clingy and whiny and chases after each and every touch trailed over his skin…

… and Sting loves those few occasions when he is like that.

So he runs his fingers through dark, silken strands; showers every part of Rogue’s face in kisses; entwines their legs and holds him closer, until with a soft little sigh, wine red eyes open blearily.

Another kiss falls to the cold tip of a fine, pale nose before Sting asks softly:

“Hey there… Did you sleep well?”

A small nod against his chest is his sole answer and it isn’t until a string of yawns later, that Rogue finally finds his voice.

“Yeah… Feeling much better now.” He looks at Sting with everything loving and gentle in his eyes before he inquires: “What about you? Still hurting?”

 

For a moment they just look at each other as a quiet aura of longing spreads around them; then Sting chuckles:

“No, I’m fine…” But suddenly some nameless expression flits over his features and when he continues, there’s a purring tone to his voice that hadn’t been there before.

“Actually… I’m still really cold… Maybe you could do something about that?”

 

Rogue looks him over questioningly; uncertain if he’d understood the request right…

Then, however, he finds sapphire eyes all hooded, tender and silently pleading, so he caves without even having put up a fight.

“’s that so?” He asks with his voice husky and low. “Well, let’s see if I can thaw your frozen ass a little bit…” He’s already straddling Sting’s hips, when both of them break into airy laughter for a second.

“You’re totally worthless when it comes to seduction…” Sting huffs, but as soon as Rogue leans down to claim his lips, he trails off with a small whimper.

The kiss starts out sweet and slow, but can’t remain like that for long what with the needy way Sting entwines their tongues and the almost embarrassingly loud moan he lets out, when Rogue starts grinding against him.

“Who’s useless now, huh?” The Shadow Dragon Slayer chuckles, before he’s being pulled down again, to have his lips devoured by another greedy mouth.

Rogue’s hands start to wander; his kisses begin to leave a trail of goose-bumps in their wake as they trail from Sting’s jaw further downwards.

He finds the hidden sweet-spot right at his lover’s neck with ease and each tickling kiss or bite has Sting sigh and gasp.

He makes his way further down slowly, ardently, and he covers each and every part of the sun-tanned skin in a shower of hot, claiming kisses.

He hasn’t even made it past Sting’s waist, when the White Dragon Slayer has already started twitching erratically beneath him in an attempt of friction and a deeper connection.

So Rogue indulges him; lets his already rock hard groin rubs up against his lover’s and now Sting starts moaning in honest.

They’re both breathing heavily by now and it takes a lot of willpower for the Shadow Dragon Slayer to pull away and return to devouring the warm body beneath him with his lips.

He’s down between Sting’s legs already, his mouth about to take him in, when he feels a pair of hands fisting into his hair, followed by a yelp of pain.

Rogue draws back immediately, carefully cups Sting’s face in the cradle of his hand, whispering.

“Careful with your hands… “

“But I wanna touch you!” The blond pouts, before he finds his wrists restrained by a coil of pitch black shadows.

“No can do…” Rogue laughs as he gently holds him down. Then he presses a rather chaste kiss to Sting’s lips and dives back down.

 

The way Rogue makes love to him that day is nothing short of worship.

He teases every sweet spot on Sting’s body, lets him soar higher and higher only to bring him back down gently, until Sting is reduced to a trembling, moaning wreck begging to be finished off. Intense, almost scorching warmth is spreading throughout every last little cell of his being, and he’s suspended in a frenzied state of white hot ecstasy. He sees colours exploding behind closed lids and starts panting his lovers name without even realizing it until the huskily uttered syllable turns into a prayer that ascends into the sky beyond in small clouds of silvery steam.

For quite some time Sting remains transfixed and lost in Rogue's captivating touches, but when his lover pressed tickling kisses to the sole of his foot, he lets his head loll sideways to catch a glimpse of the icy window.

All of a sudden he finds the world spinning; the warm sun-set-red slowly fades to black, the scent of cedar beguiles him and everything around him is just Rogue –

When he finally comes it feels like bursting into something otherworldly, something sacred and whole and beautiful; and he shudders out his climax against Rogue's warm chest, in his steady, unwavering arms that had never failed to remind him that home is right between their steadily beating hearts.

 

It isn’t but much later that they leave their warm, cosy bed to curl up together on the couch downstairs.

Sting is still wrapped up in too many blankets to count but the life has returned to his body.

He lies snuggled up against Rogue’s chest with the Exceeds snoozing peacefully on his stomach and a leaden tranquillity spreading throughout his limbs.

They’re watching one of those Christmas movies no one has ever admitted to liking aloud, but everyone secretly loves; there’s tea with a shot of whiskey happily steaming away in their hands and Rogue presses sweet little kisses to his crown.

It’s the first Christmas they spend like this; calmly listening to each other breathe; nothing painful stabbing  their hearts, no violent, cold creeds being shoved down their throats right into their hearts, no guilt or shame; no hunger and grief.

 

Sting turns around and kisses Rogue slowly. And maybe it’s a bit awkward, a bit off the spot, but it’s warm, gentle honest and sweet.

“I love you…” One of them breathes and the other takes it in; stores it away deep down his chest; before reciprocating the vow.

 

Outside thick, fluffy flakes of virgin snow cover the world, while the stars start falling in silence.


End file.
